


Shadows on the Wall

by Bat



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:28:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bat/pseuds/Bat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Problem Sleuth AU. Paciferous Seraph is an angel who falls from the sky into the residence of one Spades Slick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. INTRODUCTION: MIDNIGHT SONATA

 

Your name is Paciferous Seraph, and you are falling.

The caliginous void is black, deep black, and completely silent. 

You fall almost serenely. Here there is no time, no space, and no feeling.

If you had the strength to do so, you would willingly surrender to the swirling pitch.

However, lacking even that, you fall without purpose, unconsciously sucking in shallow breaths of void.

The lack of colour envelopes you. It crawls across your wings, caresses your face, carries your limbs in arms that don't exist.

You gasp a final, jagged gasp, and your eyes slide shut.

 

 

You wake up to stars and thick, swirling smog.


	2. CHAPTER ONE: SUN IS SHINING IN THE SKY

"The fuck was that?"

Spades Slick was not what most, if any, would call a patient man. Nor was he a man of tact, or a man with an inside voice. So the series of bangs, clatters and earth shaking thuds outside his apartment complex were bound to elicit that reaction.

 

 

Whoever made that racket is lucky that he wasn't sleeping.

 

Slick pushes himself up out of his armchair and stumbles over to the window, scanning the ground not too far below him for the source of the noise. The first thing he notices is the overturned trashcans, and the garbage strewn around the concrete like streamers at a kid's party. He scowls, half at the thought of possibly being blamed for the mess (as always) and half at the thought of a kid's party. He cranes his neck and presses his cheek against the glass, trying to make out shapes in the dim. Initially he sees nothing of note, but as his eyes adjust he notices a figure in amongst the trash. Squinting, he struggles to make out what seems to look like a guy wearing white clothing- A small mercy, as far as inspecting the situation was going. 

The guy doesn't seem to be moving, so Slick waits by the window for a while to check for any signs of life. When the results come up negative, he snarls under his breath and stomps back to his chair. He sits staring blankly at the television for all of thirty seconds before he snatches his hat off the side table and storms over to the door.

He practically gallops down the stairs, muttering to himself the entire time, impatiently cutting corners until he reaches the door. He pushes it open and falters for a second in the face of the night's chill. Pulling his jacket tighter around himself he hurries around to the side of the complex, picking his way through rotting boxes and plastic cartons. 

 

"Hey!" He yells out down the alley. "Just what the hell do you-"

 

 

The figure is crumpled like a rag doll against bags of garbage, eyes closed, face blank. Slick's eyes widen as he takes in the impossible scene before him. The impossibly white clothes the man is wearing are spattered with dust and dirt, and there is a thick golden liquid oozing from both sides of his nose. It's the wings, however, that really throw things off. They are huge, white, feathery- everything a good set of wings should be, in Slick's opinion. They are stained through with the same glittering gold as his face, some feathers dripping wet with the substance. Slick recoils, staggering backwards, unable to believe what he is seeing. He swears under his breath, and claws at his eyes, trying to snap himself out of whatever delusion he's fallen into. He briefly considers that he may be drunk, but reconsiders upon remembering he hasn't had a drink since last night.

He stays where he is for what seems like hours, shuddering in the cold. Eventually he gathers up the courage to take a few steps forward, drawing near the unconscious...

Man. Unconscious man. Let's not make any rash statements here.

Eventually Slick is close enough to see the slow rise and fall of his chest, and allows himself a sigh of relief. The last thing he needs is a dead winged thing on his hands. He kneels down beside the figure, knees cracking audibly as he does so. He raises a hand to grab the man's face, trying to get a better look at whatever is streaming from his nose. It smells metallic, but the distinctly golden colour serves to betray Slick's only theory. He shakes his head to himself. If this guy can have wings sprouting from his back, surely it isn't impossible that his blood would be a different colour.

His eyes go to the wings upon that thought, and he raises his eyebrows. They're nothing short of beautiful, in all honesty, save the patches of dirt and blood. Slick reaches to touch the soaking feathers, and his fingers come back warm and dripping with gold. The blood seems to sparkle in what little light finds its way to the alley, and Slick grimaces. Fuckin' weird. He wipes the blood on the side of his slacks, flicking the residue off his fingertips.

He stays kneeling beside the body for a while longer, not knowing what to do. What's he supposed to do? Leave it? Hide it? Sell it to a circus or something?

Before he can come to any conclusion, the man stirs. Slick jumps a little at the sudden movement, and stares expectantly at the stranger.

 

 

The greenest eyes Spades Slick has ever seen snap open and stare right back. Slick hasn't seen fear this real for a long, long time.

 

And being who he is, that's saying something.

"Please help."

 

The stranger's voice is strained and desperate. His face is contorted with newly realised pain, and he slowly pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Every movement he makes is laboured and looks incredibly painful. Slick frowns, hard. He's seen his crew like this countless times before- Maybe not so helpless, and with less feathers, but he definitely recognises the situation. Instinct overthrows reason, and Slick gets to his feet. He runs both hands through his hair and inhales, nodding at the crumpled man on the concrete in front of him.

"Can you walk?" He asks. First things first, cover the bases. Green eyes shifts from his curled position, testing out his legs and wincing when they don't comply. He shakes his head briskly, eyes still full of fear. They dart back and forth, catching occasionally on his surroundings: Brick wall, trash can, stars, clouds, window, car, garbage. Slick tilts his head to the side as he inspects the stranger just as closely. Who the fuck- No, what the fuck is he? He pushes that aside and focuses on the task at hand. He kneels down again and loops an arm around the man's back. He awkwardly finds his way around the huge wings, ignoring the whimpers and whines he receives in response. Eventually he finds a way to support the other man, and grabbing his arm, pulls him up to his feet. The stranger lets out a strangled cry of pain, and Slick winces. Not so loud.

He takes the arm he seized earlier and slings it around his neck, allowing the man to against him for support. The stranger whines again, clamping his eyes shut. Slick rolls his eyes.

 

"Stop making them fuckin' noises, you sound like an idiot," he snaps. "Pull yourself together and let's go. We got stairs to climb." He ignores the wide eyed look his companion responds with, lip curling slightly in annoyance. He begins ushering the stranger along, dragging the hobbling man by force. The other hisses in pain with each step, obviously making an effort to cut back on the high pitched squeaks. They make it to the doorframe and he shakes his head.

"I can't go up stairs. Not like this." He wheezes, eyes pleading. Slick shakes his head in response.

"Yeah you can. I ain't got anywhere else to take you. It's three flights, you'll be good. We're almost there." He grunts, pulling the stranger forward. "If you want me to help you, you're gonna have to make a few sacrifices, alright?"

The stranger heaves a deep sigh and stops resisting, letting Slick drag him forward. They stumble up the first flight of stairs and take a break on the well before staggering up the next. By the third flight they are both sweating and panting, stuck to eachother. Their ascent is something of an epic, Slick muttering obscenities under his breath and cursing himself for ever thinking this was a good idea.

But eventually they reach the door, and Slick shunts it open forcefully. They both stagger inside, and Slick veers the stranger over to his couch. The man collapses on his stomach, wings twitching slightly as his whole body heaves with each breath. Slick collapses back into his chair and allows himself a second to rest, wiping the sweat off of himself. From the man on the couch comes a long, deep moan, and Slick forces himself out of his chair for the third time that night. 

 

 


End file.
